The mother’s heart is the child’s schoolroom. -Aristotle
My mother’s heart was the most nurturing and loving schoolroom I could have ever asked for. She taught me how to be kind, how to be strong, and how to love unconditionally. Her absence has left a void in my life that can never be filled, but her love and teachings continue to guide me through life’s ups and downs.
My mother, Hajiya Hadiza Mamman Yunusa who was fondly called Yaya was the first born among 10 siblings in the family of the Late Malam Mohammed Mamman Yunusa a former Inspector of Police in Maiduguri.
As a child of a broken home, I spent most of my formative years with my paternal family. However, I felt that it was time to connect with my maternal side, so I enrolled at the University of Maiduguri in 2005.
Despite our family’s affluence, my mother taught me the importance of humility and service by assigning me tasks such as gathering firewood, cooking breakfast, filling her bathwater, and preparing her toothbrush while she recited prayers on her mat. I would then select a matching outfit and veil for her, and lay out her cosmetics, waiting patiently for her in the room.
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After my mother finished her bath, I would quickly retrieve her toothbrush and store it in a safe place. She had also instilled in me the importance of spending time with her during breakfast, which often involved fanning her with a locally made hand fan due to the heat and frequent power cuts in Maiduguri. I would stay with her until she was ready to leave for work.
At the end of the day, I would hand my mother over to my younger brother, Hassan, who would accompany her to her ride hanging her bag on his shoulder. Before she left, my grandmother, whom we affectionately call Makaka, would pray for her safe return.
My mother was a strict disciplinarian who groomed us for the future, often reminding us that “I don’t know what the future holds.”
Initially, I found her demands overwhelming. It took me months to learn how to make a fire, and the smoke often made my eyes water. However, this routine continued throughout my four years as an undergraduate at the University of Maiduguri, with the exception of holidays spent in Zaria.
My mother was devout and performed ablution before waiting for the call to prayer. She would often be found performing tahajjud (night prayers) late into the night.
My mother had a vulnerable side, and when she was feeling unwell or fatigued, she would crave attention and affection. She sometimes behaved like a child, wanting to be comforted and shown concern and compassion.
Yaya exudes an aura of fashion and style, making her a trendsetter among women. When my peers inquired about my constant fashion-forward appearance, I attributed it to my mother, who instilled in me an appreciation for beauty and elegance. Even in my 300 level, she still wore her bright red lipstick, which I admired greatly.
The bond between my mother and me is inexplicable as I have never kept any secrets from her, including my flings and admirers. Sometimes, she would tease me about my choices, saying “Kai Amina, wannan saurayinki bai cika kyau ba ga shi baqiqirin,” which loosely translates to “Your boyfriend is not that handsome and too dark-skinned.” We would share a hearty laugh about it. Her disapproval of my boyfriend would instantly dampen my feelings, leading me to end the relationship.
My mother possesses a remarkable ability to read our moods without uttering a single word. Whenever she sees me feeling down, she would ask if I had a breakup with a guy or something is troubling me, and most times, she would be right. She has dedicated her life to serving others, putting their needs before hers.
She was the rock of her family and made it her responsibility to ensure that her mother and younger sister received their monthly medications, purchased foodstuffs, paid fees, and undertook many other tasks that are typically associated with men.
In 2016, I received a call from my maternal aunt, Aunty Yaka, informing me that my mother was seriously ill and urging us to visit her as soon as possible.
The following day, my younger sister, Hussaina, and I arrived in Maiduguri and were shocked to see that Yaya had lost weight and was struggling to walk. The next morning, her sister, Aunty Fati, informed us that Yaya had not slept all night and something strange had happened. We rushed her to the University of Maiduguri Teaching Hospital, where she was admitted to the Accident and Emergency Unit and underwent several tests.
On our way back from the hospital with the test results, we ran into an old acquaintance who happened to be a medical doctor. After showing him the results, he appeared shocked but quickly composed himself and reassured us that she would be fine. Yaya was discharged after 10 days, and we all returned home.
I couldn’t help but notice that Yaya, who used to wake us up for Subhi, no longer did so. I wondered if it was due to her ailment or simply old age. Unfortunately, no one had informed us of what was wrong.
Two days later, Hussaina had to return to Zaria as she had just gotten a job and needed to focus on it. I stayed on for a few more days to ensure that Yaya was okay.
Before I left for Yola, I spent the night chatting with Yaya, listening to her stories and advice. She confided in me about various things, including her ailment, saying, “Hmm Amina, I don’t know if this ailment will be the cause of my death, but please take care of your siblings.” It was just one of the many shocking things she told me. When I asked her about her ailment, she deflected with another joke, making us laugh instead.
In summary, Yaya shared stories about her relationships with people and encouraged us to be better humans.
As it was already 4:00am, I excused myself to prepare for my trip to Yola. Yaya hugged me so tightly that I was scared something was wrong before we left around 6:00am.
Fast-forward to 2017, Hassan called me with devastating news. He had accompanied Yaya for her medical check-ups and discovered that she had Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD) in its second stage. He explained that she and her sister had hidden the truth from everyone.
I was devastated by the news and immediately contacted her siblings to inform them about her situation and discuss how we could support her.
As I mentioned earlier, Yaya had a vulnerable side and craved attention and concern whenever she was ill. Therefore, we decided to keep her ailment a secret from her while we planned how to support her financially during this time, so as not to cause her any further distress.
Thankfully, Yaya responded well to treatment, and there was a time when she informed me that her other kidney had healed. I advised her to be diligent with her medication to ensure a full recovery.
As a journalist, I would often stay with her at the family house, even when given a hotel room during media workshops, just to spend time with her and listen to her stories.
In 2018, Yaya expressed concern about my sister’s and my inability to conceive.
I told Yaya over the phone that my sister had conceived, but I concealed the fact that I was also pregnant. Little did I know that Hussaina had already broken the news of our 7-month pregnancy with twin boys and her own pregnancy with a girl. Yaya was overjoyed and prayed for our successful delivery.
Two weeks later, Yaya informed me that she was experiencing body aches. I advised her to go to the hospital and immediately informed Hussaina about her condition.
Yaya was admitted to the University of Maiduguri Teaching Hospital, and her health continued to deteriorate. Her siblings concealed the severity of her condition from us, except for her brother Kamadu, who informed us about her situation. Despite her failing health, Yaya tried to speak to us in a way that made us believe she was improving.
Hussaina and I quickly booked the next available flight to Maiduguri and went straight to UMTH from the airport. When we saw Yaya attempting to smile, we hugged her and cried.
I was unhappy with the way Yaya’s doctors were handling her case, so we put pressure on them. They advised us that she would need a donor for a transplant, and fortunately, her brother Kamadu’s kidney was a match. We began planning for her trip overseas.
After spending two weeks in Maiduguri, we decided to return to our homes and plan to meet them in Abuja before their trip. Before I left, Yaya was very happy, and I promised to meet her in Abuja.
Upon my arrival at my destination, I inquired about her condition and was informed that she was not fit to fly and had been moved to the intensive care unit (ICU). Aunty Yaka called to inform me that the doctors would be performing dialysis on her and urged us to pray. Hussaina and I spent the entire night praying for a successful dialysis.
On December 26, 2018, after saying my Subhi prayer, I attempted to call everyone in Maiduguri, but no one picked up. I thought it was too early, so I decided to take a nap.
When I woke up, I realized that I was late for Zuhr prayer and complained to my husband, asking why he didn’t wake me up. As I began to pray, my husband’s phone rang, and I heard him say, “innalillahi wa inna ilaihir ajun” (From Allah we are and to Him we shall return). I couldn’t hold back my tears while in prayer and immediately prayed, “Oh Allah, if you have taken the soul of my mother, kindly forgive her and grant her Jannah.” I finished my prayer quickly and asked my husband who had called.
He was unable to speak, and I had to ask if my mother had passed away. He replied, “May Allah forgive her soul and grant her Jannah.”
I felt as though I was going into labor, and my heart rate increased. All I could say was “innalillahi wa inna ilaihir-rajiun!”
Yaya was more than just my mother. She was my door to this earth, the embodiment of kindness, and an ever-smiling lady who wore a smile even in the face of adversity. She was the queen of her time during her days at Yerwa Government Secondary School, and later, the famous Hajiya Hadiza of the bursary department at the University of Maiduguri.
I cannot express the depth of my sorrow at her passing. Her loss has left a void in my heart that can never be filled. But I take comfort in knowing that Allah has granted her the highest rank in Jannah. She was a beautiful soul, and I have no doubt that she is now looking down on us from above, smiling that infectious smile of hers.
Until we come to join her in the afterlife, I will carry her memory with me always, cherishing the moments we shared and the love she showed me.
Dear reader, I implore you to understand that the agony of losing a mother is incomprehensible unless you have experienced it yourself. My heart breaks as I pen these words, tears streaming down my face, uncontrollable and raw.
Every time I hear of someone losing their mother, it’s as if the floodgates of my own grief open up once again, reminding me of the pain that never truly dissipates. It has been five years since I lost my mother, yet the pain still feels as fresh as if it were yesterday.
The mere mention of anyone losing their mother feels like a cruel twist of the knife, digging deeper into an already deep wound. Unless you have lost a mother, you cannot fathom the depth of the pain, the void that never truly heals. So, to anyone who has not experienced this indescribable loss, I pray that you never have to.
